Tapes
by Vengeance7xOver
Summary: Keep a keen eye on those who surround you, whether they wield weapons or alliance. Not every riddle that makes a man is clear cut. [AU, perhaps leading to Blade/Scud. Brutal content in later chapters.]
1. The Emptiness

***Short chapter teaser for yet another Blade fiction. More to come!**

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The slew of ashes scattered only from the drop of human bodies; familiars losing their loyalty contracts early. Blood pooled the tile floor, ghosting around the soles of heavy black boots that carried a lone Daywalker forward, searching with hooded eyes for signs of retreat in the dim expanse. He held no advantage here, the battlefield even save for the silver rounds in the chamber of his automatic.

Not that it truly mattered anymore; he knew he was here alone.

The woman he'd come to claim the life of had no presence in the complex after all, perhaps not even before the slaughter that littered remains all around. Either Whistler's lead had been false, or she'd slipped away even before he'd cleared the foyer.

Dropping his firearm away into its respective holster, he knelt in a ribbon of blood mingled with sodden dust. Grasping a slip between his fingers, he pulled it from beneath a familiar—the one who'd ran at him with magnum drawn, only to be taken by suckhead fire—unfolding the crumpled surface.

_Attack,_ it read in smeared black ink, _at all costs, engage him._


	2. Well Run Dry

***So this chapter is a little short. I haven't written a story in so long that it's taking some getting used to. The next installment should prove a little more revealing. **

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Frustration fueled the jerk of the handle, momentum rolling the heavy steel door off to the side before dawdling back into place behind. Habitually, the Daywalker turned to attend the locks.

"Shipment came in tonight," the old man's voice carried through the warehouse. "Another round of doses for thirst, stronger than the last few…"

Pushing away from the twines of chain and seeping cold of the night they barred, Blade gave a grunt of acknowledgement. They were back to square one with this chase, again and again, like running down a ghost.

"Quiet tonight?"

"Not much to talk about."

"Ah," Whistler sighed, coming to rest on the railing encasing the workshop. "I take it she's still solid then."

"Not even sure she exists," Eric admitted. "She's only been in whispers so far. She could be a mere idea for all we know."

"The kid seemed pretty certain she was real," he reminded. "Maybe you could get some elaboration on that."

Slowly, step by step, Blade brought himself to the base of the staircase, pausing to reflect upon the idea. "You've grown close, haven't you?" he asked simply, no traces of bias or alternative contemplations, merely hinting as to his meaning. But Whistler had known him far too long to be distracted by all the things he could imply, and instead drew from it what he knew he needed.

"He's grown on me, I'll admit," Whistler nodded, clasping his hands together. "Despite how much he fucked up first impressions. He's proven himself to be up to snuff, at least so far."

"No slacking?" the Daywalker added, feeling his shoulders lift, a hint of a smirk threatening the corner of his mouth.

"He doesn't sleep _enough, _but I suppose he's young. I sent him to bed a few hours ago—God knows if he actually lay down."

"I'll check on him tomorrow night—but until then, you should get some rest as well. We need to clear our heads before jumping back into this Ulrike hunt."

"You're going back out?" the old man inquired with a bit of a scoff. "We don't have any other leads yet."

"I plan on taking a day before trying again, see if any one shows up in response to the massacre," Blade returned, beginning his ascent in quiet, thoughtful steps. "And after all, Josh might find a lead of his own for us."


	3. All Around the World

***Finally, a bit more plot to the storyline! I'll warn in advance, the ****_next_**** chapter will not be pleasant and is strongly advised to ****steer clear**** from if you have any ****triggers****. Thanks to all for reading!**

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The pounding echoed in his ears, his arm aching as he continued to rap his fist against the rattling door. His calls between thrums of persistent hammering were met by silence, though this failed to strike worry in the old man. It had by now been some time since Whistler had met the boy, even longer since he'd come to live with Eric. He'd come to know him well, enough to keep in mind now that he hated to sleep, but sure did plenty of it when put up to it. He'd run himself nearly to death, and when it came time for him to crash, not Hell nor high water could wake him until he was ready, and certainly not an old man banging at his bedroom door.

It was not out of respect for personal space that Whistler remained outside, spreading his noise pollution. All three of them were in a constant cycle of finding new ways to invade that fanciful bubble. It was rather due to an incident about a week before hand in which he'd found Josh entirely _self-invested_ when he intruded, and the elder was still trying to forget the squeals of embarrassment.

"Whistler," came a familiar voice from beneath the steel catwalk, interlaced with a new perplexity. At once, he dropped his arm away from the door, turning to peer over the railing to his partner. "Hadn't we just gotten a shipment last night?"

"Of course we did. Don't tell me it's gone—," he objected to the thought, brows furrowing as he watched the Daywalker lift a small postage-riddled package into view. "What's that?"

"Don't know," Blade admitted. "But I'm counting on you to find out."

All systems ran in the attempt to catch a glimpse inside the simple cardboard box with its layers of stamps and tape. There came no results that suggested artillery, a bomb, or even poison in the discreet form of powder. No rigs and works appeared to be in order, or perhaps simply never made it this far, but nevertheless no knife pierced its edges before thorough investigation.

Hours of poking and scanning led to the Daywalker slicing past the binding strips, pulling back the four tightly fitted flaps. He piled the packing peanuts to the side, spilling them over onto the greasy floor as he dug two encasings from within.

At once, he handed them off to Whistler, unaccustomed to the sight. He watched the old man's face pull together in bewilderment.

"Videotapes?" he asked, turning them over in his hands, careful not to drop them. A white rectangular sticker was placed in the center of each, baring a simple I and the other, a II. No farther writing littered the discolored surface, hinting the tapes were not new, but rather had been lying in wait for some time now.

At once, Whistler turned away in the direction of Scud's workstation. The television that usually gave way to _Powerpuff Girls_ through the crackle of static sat blank in the corner, coming to life only as the eldest pressed the first tape into the pieced-together VCR.


	4. Lusk Letter

*** So this chapter didn't turn out as graphic as I had originally had intentions for it to, but perhaps that's for the best. Sorry it took a little longer than expected to post; the on screen/off was a little tricky to plot out. Hope you enjoy!**

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They heard the voices rise before the static cleared, heavy and unfamiliar, laced with a chorus of muffled sobs. When the picture filtered through, the grainy quality could not mask who they found cowered in the corner, curled up within himself.

Neither could they bring themselves to action.

* * *

A sharp yelp sounded as his hair was pulled, silenced by a brief strike as he was dragged from the corner. His thrashed boots scuffed farther against the concrete underneath his discolored form, the knees of his jeans long since given out.

"Everyone's been eager since your arrival," came his assailant's voice, the language foreign to his young ears. The warehouse duo knew every word. "Waiting to see if you're worth a mark."

He said nothing, wide, pale eyes darting frantically from wall to wall, concrete to concrete. Where was the door?

The fist at the back of his head tightened, pressing him down against the musky floor, distilling a layer of white dust. He swallowed, trying to survive on shallow breaths as icy fingers smoothed away from his hair, down to hold his thin neck forward. "I have no doubt you'll feel the needle soon enough."

His mouth opened to reply, ask what it was he was hearing. His thoughts raced, all the assumptions of his own imagination striking up as quickly as they shot away. Was this a drug ring? What would _they_ want with a child? Or is this the mafia, in search for a hostage? What if this is a cult, and this man—and the others he saw before—are monsters waiting to sacrifice him in the name of a false god?

Anyway his mind came to describe it, death came certain.

"—Are you fucking listening to me?" His thoughts fell to rubble, forehead slamming down into the concrete once, twice, his vision dancing in and out of clarity. A quiet groan escaped through trembling lips, his arms reaching out in a dizzy attempt to brace himself.

Cool air washed over his back, raising the tender skin in its wake. He couldn't imagine why anyone would keep a place so frigid—the only thing coming to mind a butcher's locker, the animalistic corpses hung inside.

More ideas, more death.

It didn't first occur to him _why. Why_ it was so suddenly nipping at his skin, biting through thick jeans and a woolen hoodie The fingers ghosting his thighs spoke volumes.

* * *

"Hey—Eric! C'mon, kid, listen!" Whistler shouted, his hands wracking the Daywalker's shoulders in attempt to break his spell. But Blade couldn't look away. He knew all too well what he was seeing. _Initiation. _This must be how some familiars are born; how _Scud_ became. He couldn't deny the identity of the child onscreen, not as he cowered, not as he finally began to scream. He'd known he'd worked for Damaskinos, but this was an entirely new House. "Eric!"

Slowly, he blinked back from the sight before closing his eyes to the television. He could not close his ears to it. "We need to go…" The screams faded, but the elder didn't seem to notice.

"To him," Whistler amended. "We need to go to him."

"Whistler," the Daywalker shook his head, nudging the old man in the direction of the screen. White against crackling black displayed the words in a clean font.

_Catch me if you can, Mister Brooks._


	5. Flicker

***Very short chapter because I suck, I know. I'm falling back into the habit of drawing and forgetting about my duties of writing. I should probably find someone to kick my ass into gear between chapters. **

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Three days.

Seventy-two hours.

Four thousand three hundred twenty minutes.

The seconds were countless. Each one agonizing.

The warehouse was void of sound in the absence of pounding speakers. No tools whirled with electric current, no metal clanging in the midst of an invention carried through the work stations. The air reeked of a stillness that settled into their bones; first Whistler's, then Blade's.

With the past day and a half spent hunched over on a wheeled work stool, the old man reviewed the tapes over and over and over again. The second tape had thus far proved blank, running its course side-by-side with the first that looped each time it ran to its end. The first never failed to bring a lasting sickness to his gut as he focused intently on the assailant pictured. There was no doubt in his mind that the man was a suckhead—no possible way he wasn't—and, judging by the footage that followed the assault, he worked for their dear Ulrike.

They'd pulled the young, innocent Josh from the concrete Hell, securing him to a small bolted-down chair. There mustn't have been an ounce of vigor left in him; not a single scream rose from his throat as the needle marked his pale skin.

Even this information, however, did nothing for them, only confirming the difficulty of the chase. Every hour, Eric had been out, searching the streets again and again, never anything new. For all they knew, the group had fled the city the instant Josh had been secured. He could be states—countries—away without their knowledge.

The quiet steps brought Whistler from his tunneled gaze, adverting it around to the platform behind. "Anything?" he asked, weary voice deprived of hope. When he'd gone unanswered, watching only as Eric stepped forward, he felt a rage well in his chest for not the first time; his eyes fell away from Blade's hooded expression. He surprised himself to find something twisted amongst his gloved fingers—a navy blue amongst the sheen of black leather, beaded with a faint pattern of white.

He couldn't dare breathe, for the thousand things this could bring to light. _He's still in the city. Eric saw him. Ulrike's killed him. Eric has him safe. We have a clue. A location. We have a memento, something to remember him by—_

"What." It was, of all things, the one thing he could say, now, when it might matter most; A word that holds a hundred questions.

There was a presence of strength in those dark, tired eyes as the bandana was lifted, tucked into the breast pocket of his coat. He didn't dare answer the old man, not when it could rouse the faith that had crumbled their foundation in the first of these three days. There wasn't any advantage in assuring everything would be okay anymore, not when all could be lost at any moment.

"Come with me."


	6. Nuke

***Finally! A chapter with some length to it! I'll be getting an account on Archive of Our Own here soon, tomorrow even, so I'll update on that at some time as I'll be posting to there as well. Preferably under this same pen. Hope you enjoy!**

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"This is it, isn't it?" Whistler asked quietly despite the echo of night life spilling in from the street. "Where you found it?" He shifted from his bad leg to his good, eying all the darkest corners of the alleyway.

"It was just at the mouth. I hadn't gone much farther, too many people lurking around for me to go unnoticed. Attention wouldn't serve us well."

"So you came for me." It hadn't made much sense to him why Eric brought him along. He'd slow him down, bring longing looks from by-passers. The only thing he could think to offer was advise—and he could do that sitting back at the warehouse. "Where to?"

"This channel leads back through into the largest section of vampiristic housing in this city. We should wind our way around, see if we can find anything else. If he dropped his bandana, he may have dropped more, giving us a trail."

"Do you think they'd be that careless with him?"

"They could just be drawing us into a trap, but what choice do we have." There was no hint of question in his voice, not when they both knew what their options were.

_Jack shit._

"Are we prepared for this?" Whistler's eyes tore from the shadows. His concern didn't seem in place with his words, and Eric knew where it truly resided. He knew from his own experience.

"We might not get another chance, old man. Prepared or not, we have to go."

* * *

"There are three entrances; One in the front, a man door, and two at the rear near the garage. If we can get to the roof, there are air ducts which would provide a fourth point of entry. If all of the warehouse's original features are still intact, it should prove simple."

They were still in the next room over, muttering their_ grand_ scheme of things as though he couldn't hear every word of it. Thus far, he knew their targets, the first stages of their plan, and what the ultimate goal was. Who. Why. Where. They were all answered. At this rate, he'd know the remaining questions soon enough.

"It's worthless," the gruff voice assured him, little care in the drunken slur. "Listen all ya like, it'll only make your life that much more painful."

"There is no life here, and I don't plan to see my end the way you do."

"I had plans too, squirt. Look how they turned out."

Scowling, Josh looked away from the man, finding a wall of gray to focus on; one of the same four he'd stared at for the past few days. "You didn't have what I do."

"I don't care if you have a fuckin' tank, ya imp. Those fuckers'll hunt you down, pull apart everything you've ever worked for, and give you something to remember it by." Scud opened his mouth to protest, but the inmate would have none of it. "Don't even try, I mean it. Not a frag, nor a nuke could help you now. They'll enslave you and beat you down, carve their names into your flesh—You don't know the life of a familiar yet."

"I'll be out of here within a week," Josh gloated nonetheless, a smile hinting on his lips as to the man's ignorance.

"Christ, how can you be such a godforsaken airhead?"

"And how can you?"

He paused, the hesitance of an idiot building his rage. "You don't know-!"

"The hell I don't." It was the pitch rather than the words that drew the man back flat against the wall. Scud had spoken a word or two of rebellion, but never above a whisper. "You're older than me by a long shot, I get it; you're supposed to be wiser than you are. But I've been here before, years and years ago before you even knew humans weren't alone. They toss you around like a dirty magazine most nights, especially after some good raid. When they're done, they'll stick you in your cage if you're lucky, though they seemed to have upgraded their pets to rooms. If you weren't the best that night, you get a royal ass-beating until the backs of your legs are stained black for days at a time. I _know_ them, asshole. Don't think for one minute I'm some selfish college kid who walked into the wrong party."

For a minute more, the man hadn't a thing to say. He'd been here five years and had never once seen this kid. If he wasn't lying, he'd have had to've been but a child last he'd been here. Instead of speaking, he looked away, toward the strips of white light outlining the door. The voices had ceased, only footfalls sounding now as the suckheads roamed the floor. Who knew what they were doing now.

"Is she here?" It was a nice alternative to his formerly sharp undertaking. "Do you know?"

"No," his voice came curt, but not entirely removed. "She comes once a day now that you're here, has since the first day you arrived, then vanishes to some ivory tower overseas. Waste of time and fuel if you ask me. You're nothing to get excited about."

"Where's this place? The one she goes to?"

"How about a little goods exchange? Tell me what it is you have that you're so confident in?"

"In return for her castle?"

"In return for her country. Your nuke."

"Mister Burton, have you ever heard of the Daywalker?"


	7. Colossal

***So I've noticed that thus far in my Blade experience, the major villains I've created have been women. I just really like female villains. I hope my portrayal doesn't appear too repetitive.**

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Patchwork.

Scud had been in charge of it himself ever since the week in which he blew the knees out of his cargos a total of six times. The old man had refused to waste his time bent over a perfectly able-bodied kid's clothes, weaving a needle to and fro every few hours. Since then, he'd been more careful about preserving his clothes, but by no means had the repairs halted. His sewing skills were nothing to hold to his trade, and the patches often fell loose.

He never thought he'd say it, but this kid was a genius.

Watching as Blade stuffed the ninth cloth square into his coat, Whistler hobbled to his side, half a smirk illuminated by the scattered moonlight. "I'm convinced Ulrike's men didn't know a thing about these."

"Won't kill us to keep our guard up anyway," Blade advised, voice seemingly indifferent to their string of luck. "We don't know, one of them may have watched him do this, but if Scud dropped these, they likely wouldn't have made a sound, and they're small enough to be disregarded if anyone saw them lying around."

"No outside party would think to pick them up."

"No one at Ulrike's would miss them if they disappeared."

They shared a glance, knowing well what they were doing. It was the only thing Blade had tried with everything he had to prevent from happening, and he realized now he'd failed in every way. He'd failed Whistler, the man who's raised him and let him live, and he'd managed to betray himself.

There was a flicker there in those aged pale eyes, and a swell of it in his own chest. Hope. The very thing that could destroy them the instant they let it go unchecked.

* * *

"Do you recall? That first night after your marking?"

The concrete floor below was intricate, scattered with hues of orange and red, black where the layers were much too thick. Lines raked gray, soulless streaks through the colors, exposing the rough rock he knew too well the touch of. It's been so long since he'd been flat on the floor in distress, his limbs too heavy to move, but he remembered the sensation well.

Not that he'd admit to her that much, when he couldn't even meet her gaze.

So he grit his teeth for a blow; one for the throat and one for the eye, one for all the places she loved to watch the black blossom. It made the blood in his veins all the sweeter, she'd claimed years ago, like wine pumping through the cellar of his chest.

"You flinched," she took notice aloud, her pride flying high. "And here I worried you wouldn't even remember mother-dearest."

Shut up. He felt it in his gut as he heard the name. It made him just as sick today as it had his shattered, orphaned self a decade ago.

"I've remembered you too, child, though I never knew why. You were an eyesore of a baby, but boy did you grow up handsome."

Shut up. It stuck in his throat, his arms trembling as his last innocent shreds floated back into his memory. What it was like to be somebody's baby, to be groomed and loved. To have a family to rely on, to sit down at a meal, or to be tucked into bed, a kiss placed on his forehead. He could recall his last day; his classes and the face of a friend, the lunch he hadn't eaten and the homework he never did, all vivid enough to knot his thoughts to try and save himself.

"When I heard a whisper of you taking to this city, I had called it fate bringing you home. I never should have sold you off to those rowdy brethren, but you'd given me no choice being of such little use. Now I see your purpose; why I let you go."

Shut up. On the tip of his tongue like a taste he couldn't shake.

"Imagine my surprise when we found you curled up with the Daywalker and his old man. You sure made mother proud to call you her own again."

"Shut up…" It was quiet and unconscious, his eyes tracing the swirls of crimson on the floor.

The ear hovering at his lips so suddenly startled him that he barely gathered the words that followed. "What was that, sweetheart?"

She was close, too close for him to think straight, and the smell of her perfume left him with lingering memories of a long-ago place in New Jersey. There were too many scenes at once, the highest and the lowest mingling to taint innocence and bring light to darkness. He couldn't see through the past, couldn't hear the racing of his heart any longer.

And so it surprised even him when he screamed loud enough to deafen her.


End file.
